


Anachronistic Oneiromancy

by DemiCatra



Series: Frump's Wheel of Doom [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Dean Thomas goes spare, Dream Spells, Frumpologist's Wheel of Doom, Humor, M/M, Oneiromancy, POV Dean Thomas, Trelawney is Insane, crack!fic, soulbond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:55:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27145552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DemiCatra/pseuds/DemiCatra
Summary: Dean Thomas experiences some unexpected consequences from a Divination project.Blame Frump and her Wheel of Doom for this one...
Relationships: Godric Gryffindor/Dean Thomas
Series: Frump's Wheel of Doom [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1981468
Kudos: 2





	Anachronistic Oneiromancy

**Author's Note:**

> Frump, this one is all for you, LOL. Sorry it took me so long to write.
> 
> Warning: unbeta'd and basically complete crack.

Spare. He was going to go spare. There was no other word for it. Dean Thomas, was going to lose his mind. Was losing his mind. HAD ALREADY lost his mind.

It all started with that blasted sodding oneiromancy project that Professor Trelawney had assigned them in the week leading up to Samhain. 

The instruction scroll Trelawney had handed out to them was...odd for a word. It was littered with mildly strange syntax and terrible spelling and it had a couple of notes in her handwriting littered across it.

The scroll listed five ingredients: purre silver, water of rose, blackest salt, weathered parchment, infusion of herbs. Beneath these ingredients, readers were instructed to create an infusion of lavender, wormwood, sandalwood, mugwort, bergamot, jasmine, and cloves. Here, to the side, Trelawney had scribbled in, “Create the infusion three days prior!! Place it in the room by your bed on the day of casting.” 

It then read in a column down the right side of the parchment  
Silver dust rubbed on temples cleanst with rose water before bed. 3x anticlockwise, 1x clockwise. (2x) What you want to dream about written on a piece of parchment. Black salt sprinkled across the page, then fold it towards you. Focus on your desired outcome as you folded it. Then place the parchment beneath your pillow before bed. To the left of this block of text the Professor had written, “Or what you want someone else to dream about!”

Those were the only instructions they had been given--and in their entirety, too.

And casting.

Seriously. _Casting?_

Who was Trelawney kidding? No one even practiced this sort of magic anymore. Not in the Wizarding World anyway. 

It _was_ eerily similar to a spell he'd once read as a child at the home of his Muggle aunt. She was a self-proclaimed witch and practitioner of Wicca.

If she only knew…

But by Merlin’s saggy ball sack was he ever unprepared for this. 

Ever. Since. That. Stupid. _Fucking_. Project.

Every night since they’d started it, he’d been dreaming of Godric Gryffindor. That wasn’t the end of it though. If he had just had a few off-hand dreams he’d chock it up to a bad batch of pumpkin juice or something and let Trelawney lap it up. 

Maybe he was only supposed to do that rubbing step once? Or in a different order? It was worded confusingly...right?!

But earlier that day in Binn’s class, Gryffindor had appeared in front of him and started talking. No one else could see the blighter, but to Dean he was just shy of corporeal. And the man wouldn’t _bloody shut up!_

Didn’t help matters that Dean could only understand about a third of what the man was saying, too. After lunch he’d nipped by the library for a book on translation spells, hoping that there’d be one for aural perception of Old English to Modern English. 

In a book with a title too faded to read, Dean had discovered a spell that he thought was meant to translate for both speaker and listener--to allow for a conversation, he assumed. The writing had changed throughout the book, making him think that it was from the Middle Ages one moment, while in the next it seemed to be written in a language like English but...not quite. Not that he could read those particular sections, or asides. 

The spell was like to work as well as catching Cornish pixies if you were Gilderoy Lockhart. But he figured it was worth a shot when Gryffindor popped up again.

**“Þan þæm dracan ic i forsloh....”** Dean heard a deep, grumbling voice start in Anglo-Saxon English.

Oh. _Great._ He was back.

Sighing, Dean lazily swished his wand between him and the loquacious apparition.

_Mutantibus auribus alligamus._

He sighed.

“And it’s great, ugly head rolled forth, ‘cross the floor.” Godric continued, an unplaceable lilt to his accent.

Flipping Founders and Holy God in Heaven above...it had worked!

And Dean definitely, definitively did _not_ squeak in surprise when he realised it. He did not jump off of the sofa in shock. _Nope_. Didn’t happen.

That was what he told himself, anyways. At least, it was what he told himself until Godric turned to him with a slightly taken aback look of annoyance. 

“Who are you?” Godric dismissed him with an eye roll and began to stride across the currently, _blessedly_ , empty Common Room. 

“Salazar! Salz! Did you sneak off again while I was telling you of my latest conquest? Salz!”

Godric abruptly broke off in his shouting and his shoulders tensed before he swung back to face Dean with an accusatory finger pointed in his direction.

“You! Where did Professor Slytherin go?”

“Err…” was all Dean was able to voice after managing to pick his jaw up off of the floor.

“And why is your uniform mussed and odd looking? What _fabric_ is that? It’s ghastly. Ten points from… _wait!_ You’re not one of my students...who are you? Why are you in robes bearing my crest?! Off with them! Off!” Godric stalked forward and tried to pull Dean’s outer robes from his person.

Dean scrambled out of Gryffindor’s grip, around the back of the sofa and answered, “Dean Thomas”. Then he processed the rest. 

“What! I am in Gryffindor House! I sorted Gryffindor in my first year!” His voice rose in pitch and volume throughout the exclamations.

“Woden’s taint you did! I’d recognize you if you had!” The older wizard tried to grab on to Dean’s robes across the furniture.

Dean physically brushed the other man’s hand off of him this time, looking mildly affronted. “Woden’s taint? Woden’s _taint_ ? What does that even mean?!” Backing up against another sofa, Dean fisted his hands against his temples and closed his eyes. “And of course I sorted Gryffindor! Back in September of 1991! Your hat put me there. _HOW ARE YOU EVEN HERE?_ Why can you hear me? See me? Is it because of the spell I just cast? It’s not the oneiromancy or you’d have heard me screaming at you days ago.” Dean opened his eyes and collapsed back on to the sofa. “For the love of Merlin, why have _I_ been seeing and dreaming about you for days?” At this, Dean threw his hands in the air. “What is bloody happening to me?!” He cried, his voice wavering slightly.

Gryffindor looked simultaneously taken aback, annoyed, and a bit frightened. 

“1991?” Godric breathed the question. “What do you mean, 1991? Today is Samhain. And it’s 1143.”

Dean snorted “Well, one of those statements is correct.” He glanced up at the Founder whose blood was rapidly draining away from his face. Dean waved a hand in motion for the wizard to sit in the nearest chair before he collapsed on the floor. When Gryffindor had fallen heavily into the cushions, Dean continued. “It’s Samhain, yes. But it’s not 1143.” Dean shook his head back and forth slowly as he made the last statement, underlining his point.

Godric gulped visibly then blinked slowly. “I think, Mr. Thomas, that we ought to restart our acquaintance.” The Founder appeared more composed now, almost formal, even. He ran a hand through his shoulder-length chestnut hair, letting it drift through his wiry beard, then fall into his lap.  
  


“My name is Godric Gryffindor. But then, I believe you already knew that. And I think that we might be in a term, thoroughly bollocksed.” Godric turned his deep brown gaze directly to Dean’s similar stare. “If you used the combination of spells that I think you did...then we are Bound together by Soul.”

Dean fainted.

**Author's Note:**

> “Þan þæm dracan ic i forsloh..."  
> Then I slew the dragon...
> 
> Mutantibus auribus alligamus  
> Bastardized Latin. Roughly, we are bound together by changed ears.


End file.
